sides it was surrounded by
cattle ranges where a lusty brood of young untamed devils were
constrained to give themselves soberly to their work during the long,
dusty days. But at night, always on a Saturday evening, there came
into Rocky Bend from lumber-camps, mines, and cow outfits a crowd of
men whose blood ran red and turbulent, seeking a game of cards, a
"whirl at the wheel," a night of drinking or any other amusement which
fate might vouchsafe them. Good men and bad, they were all hard men
and quick. Otherwise they would not have come into Rocky Bend at all.

Lee and Carson riding out of the darkness into the dim light of the
first of the straggling street-lamps, passed swiftly between the rows
of weather-boarded shacks and headed toward the Golden Spur saloon.

Though the hour was late there were many saddle-ponies standing with
drooping heads here and there along the board sidewalks; from more than
one barroom came the gay ragtime of an automatic piano or the scrape
and scream of a fiddle. Men lounged up and down the street, smoking,
calling to one another, turning in here or there to have a drink or
watch a game.

The two newcomers, watching each man or group of men, rode on slowly
until they came to the building on whose false front was a gigantic
spur in yellow paint. Here they dismounted, tied their horses, and
went in. Carson, with a quick eye toward preparedness for what might
lie on the cards, looked for Lee's gun. It wasn't in his pocket; it
wasn't in his waistband, ready to hand. It wasn't anywhere that Carson
could see. At the door he whispered warningly:

"Better be ready, Bud. Ain't lost your gun, have you?"

Lee shook his head and stepped into the room. At the long bar were
three or four men, drinking. Quinnion was not among them. There were
other men at the round tables, playing draw, solo, stud horse. One
glance showed that Quinnion was not in the room. But there were other
rooms at the rear for those desiring privacy. Lee, nodding this way
and that to friends who accosted him, made his way straight to the bar.

"Hello, Sandy," he said quietly.

Sandy Weaver, the bartender, looked at him curiously. A short, heavy,
blond man was Sandy Weaver, who ran a fair house and gave his attention
strictly to his own business. Save when asked by a friend to do him a
favor, such a favor as to keep an eye on another man.

"Hello, Bud," returned Sandy, putting out a red hand. All expre